


Spirit in the Sky

by TheFreakZone



Series: OKTA [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 17:24:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19795525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFreakZone/pseuds/TheFreakZone
Summary: “I hear you calling me at night; I can see your spirit in the sky.” When Mikkel’s lover mysteriously disappears, he’ll take it upon himself to rescue Bjørn from whoever (or whatever) has taken him. DenNor. One-shot.





	Spirit in the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> And I'm back with yet another song-fic! :D It's been my first time writing DenNor; I was a bit scared of screwing it up :/ But the song had such a big DenNor vibe I couldn't help it. And, I mean, it was Norway's entry for Eurovision 2019 :P (I started writing it well before the Grand Final, it was my absolute favourite, and I'm still salty it didn't win. Why haven't we gotten rid of the bloody juries yet? =_=)
> 
> Shout-out to Shadowcatxx for helping me edit it... and encouraging me to write it... and brainstorming with me to come up with the plot... You know what, this story probably wouldn't exist without her, so thanks, buddy n_n"
> 
> Hetalia — Hidekaz Himayura
> 
> Spirit in the Sky — KEiiNO

**SPIRIT IN THE SKY**

“Can’t you stay?”

Mikkel’s voice is drowsy and muffled against the pillow, and yet it manages to fill the entire room. Bjørn stills at the edge of the bed, one bare foot already on the floor, and hesitates for a second before leaving the warmth of the covers.

“Stay,” Mikkel insists, reaching for him.

“I can’t,” Bjørn reprimands him, his voice barely a whisper. “I shouldn’t.”

“ _Shouldn’t_ doesn’t mean _can’t_.” A yawn. “Stay with me.”

“Mick…”

“Until the sun rises.”

“Mikkel.”

“Please.”

Bjørn heaves a sigh. _I can’t stay_ , he stubbornly reminds himself. It’s already risky enough that he has come in the first place. If he were to stay for the night, if he were to accidentally sleep in… If they were to be discovered…

Just the thought makes him shiver.

They’ve always been careful. Ever since they kissed for the first time under that very roof, they have always been wary, always alert. No public shows of affection that may lead someone to believe they’re more than two good friends. Few encounters, always furtive and when both are absolutely certain there’s little to no risk. One can never be too cautious.

But six years is a long time, and Bjørn knows Mikkel is starting to lower his guard. At the beginning of their fling, he would never have asked him to stay for the night. And if Mikkel is going to forget the risk, then Bjørn has to be careful for the both of them.

“I’m not staying,” he states.

Mikkel sighs in defeat. “Even if it’s a full moon?”

A quiet smile makes it to Bjørn’s lips. Not even eight hours ago, he was lecturing Mikkel about the dangers of full moons. _Not just werewolves, you know? These nights are favoured by faeries and spirits for their wicked deeds. I’m serious, Mikkel, don’t laugh. One of these days you’re going to be attacked by trolls, and when that happens you’ll wish you’d paid me more attention_. “Don’t try to use that against me, Densen,” he says now, loving the pout Mikkel makes when he addresses him by his surname. “I’ll take the risk.”

Bjørn knows Mikkel doesn’t believe in trolls or faeries or any other kind of supernatural beings, and he doesn’t blame him for it. After all, there’s barely any evidence to prove their existence. _We have no reason to believe_ , Mikkel says often. Bjørn always replies: _We have no reason not to believe either_.

“You’re so brave.”

“Uh huh.” Bjørn shivers again, but this time it has little to do with his previous thoughts, and more with the cold of winter. The fire in the hearth has been reduced to embers, and the wind whistling outside sneaks in through the cracks in the windows.

Being stark naked doesn’t help, either.

“Hey, Mick?”

“Hmm?”

A pause, and then: “Where did you hide my clothes this time?”

**_***_ **

_HE LÅ E LOI LA_

**_***_ **

Bjørn leaves Mikkel’s farm in the dead of the night, the moon shining so brightly in all her glory it almost feels like day. It is cold, though, and Bjørn wraps his fur coat around himself tightly, trying to shut the wind away.

Mikkel’s farm is on the outskirts, far from the village centre, and that’s a blessing and a bother at the same time. A blessing because it gives them privacy and the chance to stop playing pretend and behave like actual lovers. A bother because it forces Bjørn to walk in such conditions (at night, freezing cold, and missing Mikkel’s warmth).

For a while, the soft crunch of the snow under his boots is all Bjørn can hear. Even the wind seems to have quietened down. It’s a familiar sound, one that helps him think: about him, about Mikkel, about _them_. About the life they want to share, and how brutally they’ll be punished and cast out if they are discovered.

**_Pretty human_.**

Bjørn stops dead in his track when he hears the voice. Was it even a voice? _Just the wind_ , he thinks. But there’s no wind. The air is still. So is he.

Somewhere behind him, he hears the light tapping of bare feet on the snow.

He spins around. Nothing.

The sound of wings flapping around him, fast like a hummingbird’s, scarier than the owl’s silent threat.

**_Pretty, pretty human_.**

This time, Bjørn is filled with dread. It is a voice he’s hearing — only he’s not exactly _hearing_ it. It echoes directly in his head, his ears apparently deemed a useless intermediary by whatever creature has set its sights on him.

A presence behind him, so sudden that it chases away every rational thought in his head. He turns, desperately trying to recall anything he’s ever read about mystical beings, but all the knowledge he’s acquired from years of avid reading has deserted him.

He barely has time to see the creature — small, humanoid, colourful wings — before a slim hand presses against his forehead, forcing his head back with surprising strength. Paralyzed, Bjørn can only look up at the moon, full and big and, somehow, threatening. It still shines white, but the longer Bjørn stares at it, the more colours he sees; a dance of greens and blues and purples that relax his body, surrendering it to the will of the creature.

**_Come_.**

It isn’t a command, but it needn’t be.

Bjørn’s body nods and follows the creature, away from the village, away from the farm, and into the woods.

Bjørn’s mind panics for the few seconds it remains conscious.

Before falling into the dark, one last thought makes it out:

 _Mikkel_.

**_***_ **

_HE LÅ E LOI LA_

_Č_ _AJET DAN_ _Č_ _UOVGGA_

**_***_ **

Mikkel wakes up with Bjørn’s name on his lips and the unshakeable feeling in his gut that something’s _wrong_.

He stumbles out of bed, dresses quickly and rushes outside. The cold air slaps his face, shaking the last traces of sleep off him. It’s still dark, but the sky is starting to clear in the east — dawn is near.

At first glance everything looks normal, and the rational part of his brain urges him to go back inside. The feeling remains, however, and if there’s one thing Mikkel trusts, it’s his instincts.

It’s easy to find Bjørn’s footprints in the snow, the tracks leaving the farm in the usual direction, and as Mikkel follows them, not noticing anything out of the ordinary, he starts to wonder if maybe he’s just being paranoid.

That is, until the tracks suddenly change direction and heads into the woods.

“Fuck,” Mikkel gasps.

He runs back home.

Bjørn has been taken. Mikkel knows him — they’ve been friends since they were five and lovers since they were fifteen — and knows Bjørn would have never left like that, impulsively and with no warning. He wouldn’t have left without telling Mikkel first.

 _But there were no signs of struggle_ , the voice of Logic argues. _He clearly deviated from the path all on his own_.

“No, no, he wouldn’t have,” Mikkel replies through gritted teeth as he grabs his biggest backpack and starts packing. “It’s not like him.” Warm clothes. Flint. Food. “He wouldn’t leave me like that.” A knife makes it into his boot. “Not in the middle of the night. Gods, he was scared shitless of…”

The next words die in his throat. He freezes in place as he remembers Bjørn’s stories about the full moon; his lover’s silly fears that don’t seem silly anymore.

There were other footprints beside Bjørn’s, he suddenly remembers. Small bumps on the snow, so discreet someone else might have missed them. Mikkel himself had immediately forgotten about them, deeming them unimportant disturbances caused by the wind.

Now, however…

Fear keeps him nailed on the spot for a few minutes. He’s scared of the unknown, of whatever he might encounter if he goes on a chase. Most of all, he’s terrified for Bjørn.

But from that fear a determination is born. He won’t abandon his lover to whatever struggle he’s in. Whatever Bjørn’s Fate has in store for him, they’ll face it together. It’s always been like that with them.

With no hesitation, Mikkel picks up his axe.

 _That purchase was a waste_ , Bjørn’s voice comes to him, an echo from a few years back. Mikkel was showing off his newest toy, a proper war axe he had bought off some merchants that were passing by.

 _What do you mean_ a waste _?_ Mikkel had protested. _It’s a mighty weapon worthy of the mighty warrior I’m destined to be_ , he claimed, striking a pose with the admittedly heavy weapon.

 _As if_ , Bjørn had mocked. _Bark all you want, Mick, but you’re the softest guy this town has to offer. All you’ll do with that is chop wood._

Mikkel smiles fondly at the memory. Bjørn, as usual, had been correct in his assumptions: the mighty war axe was reduced to a household instrument.

But not anymore.

There was another thing Bjørn said that day, a knowing glint in his eyes and the shade of a smirk on his lips: _You and I both know, Mikkel Densen, that you wouldn’t hurt a fly_.

Another spot-on remark that, again, has been proven wrong by time.

Because no, Mikkel Densen wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Unless that fly happens to be a threat to Bjørn.

**_***_ **

_HE LÅ E LOI LA_

**_***_ **

The sun has barely risen by the time Mikkel leaves his farm, and it’s at its highest when the tracks disappear.

He’s been following them for hours. They have taken him deep into the woods, farther than Mikkel has ever dared to wander — without the guide of Bjørn’s footprints, he’s lost. He briefly thinks he should have brought a compass (he knows he owns one, he just doesn’t know where exactly in his house it is), but he doesn’t have time to scold himself or wail in self-pity. Every second matters. He resumes his walking, trying to continue in a straight line using the sun as a guide.

If Bjørn were there, he’d scoff at him for his beginner’s mistake. _Brilliant, Densen, truly astounding_ , he’d say. _Going on a chase to who knows where with no compass or map. You are—_

A shout quiets Bjørn’s imaginary voice. Mikkel tenses and rises his axe, ready to spring into action if necessary, but soon other voices join the first one and he relaxes.

Woodsmen.

“Hey!” he calls. He’d go to them, but he fears losing his way completely, so instead he waits for them to come to him. “Hello,” he smiles when they finally show up — three men, carrying huge axes, who stare at him with mistrust.

“Who’re you?” one of them questions him. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“My name is Mikkel. I’m looking for a friend. You wouldn’t happen to have seen a man around these parts earlier today?”

The men share a glance.

“What’s your friend look like?”

Mikkel’s first instinct is answering an honest _He’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen_ , but he doubts that’ll help his case, so he settles for a description: “He’s around my age and height. Blond, a bit darker than me. Blue eyes. Fair skin. Quiet. Maybe a bit odd.”

They shake their heads. “No, afraid we ain’t seen nobody like that. He gone missing this morning?”

“More like during the night.”

“Last night?” one of the men gasps and they all look at each other in terror. “He walked outside during the full moon?”

“Well, yes, he—”

“Sorry, mate. Your friend been taken.”

“Taken?”

“By them faeries!”

Mikkel suspected that much, but hearing other people voice his thoughts adds another layer to his dread. “Do you… Do you know where I can find them?”

“You’d better give up. Your friend gone forever.”

“No can do,” Mikkel smiles, putting a confidence into his words he wishes he were actually feeling. “I won’t abandon Bjørn just like that.”

The woodmen look at him, then at each other, then start arguing in hushed voices. Mikkel waits, his patience growing thinner with each passing second, until the argument seems to be settled.

One of the men walks closer to him. When he speaks, his voice is heavy, as if he were confessing a secret he’d rather not share. “Legend has it,” he says, “that faeries take those who are the most beautiful.”

Well, he got that bit right.

“They take them north, to where the lights dance in the night sky.”

“And? What do they do then?”

The man shrugs. “Don’t know. But, boy,” he inches closer, “faeries don’t give back their toys. Even if your friend still lives, you won’t get him back.”

“I won’t know for sure unless I try.”

“Aye,” the man chuckles. “Truly commendable. Futile, I think, but commendable nonetheless.” He sighs and pats Mikkel’s shoulder. “You go to your death, boy.”

Mikkel merely shrugs. The thing is, if Bjørn is to die at the claws of the faeries, then Mikkel will be damned if he stays behind.

Together, or not at all.

The man must see his resolve, for he sighs and hands him a battered compass. “Go north. Mountains ahead — you may have to climb. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

The men leave without a word, and Mikkel doesn’t doubt they’ll be praying for his soul tonight.

**_***_ **

_HE LÅ E LOI LA_

**_***_ **

He’s lucky enough to find a cave before nightfall.

It’s taken him two more hours to leave the woods, and then he’s kept walking for all the afternoon and evening until almost reaching the mountains. It’s the longest he’s ever walked, and when he enters the cave, he barely has strength left to eat dinner or prepare for the night.

He doesn’t even think of checking for bears.

Between yawns, he looks for the warmest corner, and collapses into a dreamless slumber.

**_***_ **

_HE LÅ E LOI LA_

_Č_ _AJET DAN_ _Č_ _UOVGGA_

**_***_ **

_I’m tired._

_Why am I so tired?_

_I want to lay down. I need sleep. I will lay down and—_

**_Dance._ **

_I must dance. I will dance. I—_

_Where do all these lights come from? What’s that music?_

_W-Where am I?_

_I’m scared._

**_Dance, pretty human. Dance._ **

_I’m dancing. I mustn’t stop dancing._

_I’m terrified._

_I’m all alone._

_Mikkel? Where are you?_

_Mikkel?_

_MIKKEL?!_

**_***_ **

_HE LÅ E LOI LA_

_Č_ _AJET DAN_ _Č_ _UOVGGA_

**_***_ **

_Mikkel._

_Mikkel!_

_MIKKEL!_

He jolts awake to the sound of Bjørn’s voice. Then, as he comes to his senses, he realizes it’s not him.

Just the wind blowing outside.

“Shit. Fuck.” There’s no going back to sleep now. Mikkel rises to his feet with effort (every muscle in his body is sore — including some he didn’t even know he had) and stumbles to the entrance of the cave. It’s still night-time, but it’s not as dark as he expected.

Once outside, he’s greeted by the Northern Lights.

It’s the first time he sees them from this close, and Mikkel looks up in awe. The sky is lit by thousands of colours that dance and mingle together, rippling across the dark blue of the night. There’s something hypnotic about them; something that keeps Mikkel staring until his neck aches and his eyes get teary.

Something moves in the lights. A silhouette, fast and agile, and Mikkel instantly recognizes a fox. Then there’s another, a strong, feral wolf, and another, a tall stag. Then come more and more, all different animals, some Mikkel can’t identify.

And then there’s Bjørn. His is a silhouette Mikkel would recognize in a pitch-black room, and it’s up there, dancing in the lights.

Mikkel gasps, his lover’s name caught in his throat.

Bjørn disappears into the light ripples, and where he stood before, now there’s a bear.

Then Mikkel blinks, and everything’s over.

He falls to his knees, choking for air (how long has he been holding his breath for?). When he looks up again, the lights are still dancing on the night sky, but there’s nothing in them.

A few minutes pass until Mikkel recovers his breath. The lights are already fading out. Mikkel stands up again, shakes the snow off him, and sighs.

“Well, that was freaky.”

**_***_ **

_HE LÅ E LOI LA_

**_***_ **

He leaves before the sun rises.

Going north means climbing the mountain straight ahead, so Mikkel chooses to go around it instead. The path is trickier than yesterday’s — there’s rocks and ice and it’s colder — and, much to his frustration, Mikkel finds himself moving much slower.

At this pace, he’ll never reach Bjørn in time — if it’s not too late already.

**_***_ **

_HE LÅ E LOI LA_

**_***_ **

Noon is near when he stumbles upon another man.

To be precise, what he sees first is a refuge, way more professional than he could ever dream of building, and then he notices the man next to it. He’s sitting on the ground, sharpening a hunting knife. Beside him lies a deer, an arrow sticking out its neck.

Mikkel’s mouth waters at the sight (it’s been barely a day and he already misses a proper lunch) and he doubles his speed, hoping the hunter is friendly. “H-Hey,” he calls to catch his attention. “I’m—”

“ _Stop!_ ” the hunter snaps, jumping to his feet, and Mikkel obeys out of pure shock. The other man is easily a full head taller than him, and the look in his blue eyes is icy. But then he says, “Careful,” and nods to the ground before Mikkel.

Mikkel looks down to realize he’d almost walked into a trap.

“Sorry,” he breathes out. “Thanks.”

“You look hungry. Come.”

Mikkel dodges the trap and joins the hunter, who eyes his backpack and axe with curiosity, but says nothing. “I’m looking for a friend,” Mikkel explains.

The man nods.

Mikkel waits. Five seconds, ten, fifteen. Then: “I’m Mikkel.”

“Berwald,” he replies, extending his hand.

Mikkel shakes it.

Berwald, seemingly not the talkative type, doesn’t say anything else while they cook, not even to give instructions, so it’s up to Mikkel to fill the void. He talks about his farm, the only thing he has left from his father; about his mighty war axe, which is no longer mighty or a war weapon. Eventually, and without even realizing, he falls back into his old favourite, which is, of course, Bjørn.

They’ve known each other since forever. Mikkel is only one month older than Bjørn, and once they were born, they’d practically done everything together. “We didn’t get along at first,” Mikkel recalls with a smile. “Apparently he was very quiet, but I cried so loud I always woke him up. He only warmed up to me when we were five and he broke a vase and I helped him hide the evidence and then took the blame when we were discovered. We’ve been best friends since.”

So engrossed with recounting every single anecdote involving Bjørn, Mikkel doesn’t realize that Berwald is paying much more attention now.

He still doesn’t say a single word until they finally sit down to eat.

“What happened to your friend?”

“He went missing two nights ago,” Mikkel answers, and doesn’t miss the faint frown on Berwald’s brow. “Before you say it: yes, I know he was probably taken by faeries; and yes, I know he might be… he might not be alive,” he says with difficulty; “and yes, I know I’m probably going to my death. I know. I just… I can’t not try.”

Berwald’s face remains as stoic as it’s been since they’ve met, but his voice is soft when he says: “He must be a very close friend.”

“He is,” he admits, quietly. There’s a knot in his throat; words come out shaky. “Bjørn… He’s my favourite person in the entire world. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“So that’s how it is.”

A shiver travels down Mikkel’s back at those words, when he realizes that perhaps he’s said too much. His body tenses. He can feel his pulse in his temple. “We’re just friends,” he states.

“Okay.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“No.”

“Well, it’s true.”

Berwald hums. “Where are you from?”

Mikkel eyes him with mistrust, but answers anyway.

“I see. Not far from where I used to live.”

“ _Used to_?”

“I left when I was around your age. Maybe even younger.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t quite fit in. Neither did my friend. We left together, he and I.”

Something settles in the air between them. Mikkel’s body relaxes. “Were you and your friend… _close_?” he asks slowly, quietly.

The corners of Berwald’s lips curl into the closest thing to a smile Mikkel believes he can make. “So close we exchanged rings a few years ago so everyone would know.”

Those words lift a weight off Mikkel, a weight he’s been carrying for so long he wasn’t even aware it was there. He suddenly feels so light, as if the wind could now sweep him off his feet and help him fly.

There’s something wet on his cheeks. Weird — it didn’t look like it would rain.

“I don’t doubt Bjørn was taken by faeries,” Berwald says then, and those words return Mikkel back to earth so brutally he feels dizzy. “They must have taken him up the mountain, closer to the lights. If he’s tough, he might still live, but you must hurry.”

Mikkel jumps to his feet. The meal has renewed his strength and doubled his resolve. “Thanks for everything,” he says as he collects his belongings. Backpack on, axe in hand, and he’s ready to leave in barely a minute.

“Take this with you,” Berwald says before Mikkel can run off towards the mountain. He’s handing him a map. “We live on the other end of the mountain; I marked the spot. When you rescue Bjørn, you can come to our village.”

“And stay there?”

Berwald shrugs. “That’s up to you. But I can guarantee you, you and your _friend_ will be most welcome there.”

“He’s my lover,” Mikkel blurts out, impulsively, before his rational mind can filter it, and it feels so _good_ to say out loud, so openly, for someone else to hear.

“Really?” says Berwald, and this time his voice is clearly tinted with something akin to amusement. “I’d never have known.”

**_***_ **

_HE LÅ E LOI LA_

**_***_ **

Climbing up the mountain proves to be more challenging than Mikkel expected. There are tricky rocks that look stable but give way under his feet, and there’s a coat of ice on everything. If this were a leisure hike, he’d have retreated a long time ago.

But this one, for better of for worse, is a life-or-death hike, so Mikkel toughens up and continues, no matter how many times he loses his footing.

And Bjørn is close.

If asked, Mikkel wouldn’t be able to explain how he knows. He just does. It’s a feeling, deep in his gut, that tells him he’s nearing his destination, and it’s too strong to ignore.

As the sun starts to descend, Mikkel picks up his pace. He barely stops, only when the path allows it, and just for a few seconds to recover his breath. He can’t delay — something tells him that, if he doesn’t make it tonight, then it’ll be too late.

And he can’t bear the thought of being late.

**_***_ **

_HE LÅ E LOI LA_

_Č_ _AJET DAN_ _Č_ _UOVGGA_

**_***_ **

_I’m—_

_Tired._

_Exhausted._

_Sleep — I need sleep._

_I need—_

_I want—_

_I—_

**_Dance._ **

_Dance, yes._

_I must dance._

_I am—_

_I need—_

_What do I need?_

**_DANCE._ **

_Yes. Dance._

_Must dance. Will dance._

_Alone._

_All alone._

_Will you dance with me, Mick?_

_Mick—_

_Mikkel—_

_Who?_

**_***_ **

_HE LÅ E LOI LA_

_Č_ _AJET DAN_ _Č_ _UOVGGA_

**_***_ **

The sun sets, but the moon is bright enough to illuminate Mikkel’s path. Then, not much later, the Northern Lights appear again, and this time they’re so close Mikkel thinks he might touch them if he jumps.

Then he hears the sound of drums, not too far away, and every thought leaves his head — every thought, except for Bjørn.

The incline evens out until he reaches a small plain. The sight that greets him makes him stop dead in his tracks.

There are three creatures, lean and small like human children, but they are anything but human. Their translucid wings have all the colours of the rainbow, and when they flap them real fast to fly, it looks like they have a multicolour aura around them. One of them spots Mikkel and hisses at him, showing a multitude of small, pointy teeth. Its eyes, entirely black, as if they are one big pupil, send such a powerful glare his way that Mikkel nearly drops his things and flees.

Nearly.

Because behind the creatures there’s a circle of wooden drums that seem to be producing a beat even though nobody is playing them; and there, right in the middle of the circle, is Bjørn.

He’s dancing, but he appears to be unaware of himself, as if his body is a puppet being controlled by someone else. And oh, how that thought fuels Mikkel’s rage! His fist clenches around his axe and he walks with purpose towards his lover. Getting closer, he notices other details; the most shocking, that Bjørn seems to be losing colour. His hair, which used to be a darker blond than Mikkel’s, is now much lighter, nearing white. His skin is much fairer than it used to be, so that, even at a distance, Mikkel can spot every single freckle on his face.

Everything pales in comparison to his eyes.

At first glance, Mikkel thinks it’s just the reflection of the Northern Lights, which practically envelops them, but the closer he gets, the more he realizes how wrong he is. Bjørn’s eyes are changing colour, from green to blue to purple and back again, and it’s like he’s got the Lights in him.

Mikkel can’t help thinking that it’s absolutely beautiful. If only it didn’t feel so bloody unnatural.

**_Stop._ **

The voice resonates in his head so suddenly he obeys out of pure survival instinct. Moments later, the creature that had hissed at him is in front of him, the flapping of its wings ruffling Mikkel’s hair.

“Let him go,” Mikkel demands, infusing his voice with the force of his desperation; of wanting Bjørn back.

**_No._ **

“What are you doing to him? Why did you take him?”

**_He is pretty._ **

“I’d noticed. But tough luck, dickface — I saw him first.”

**_He will become one with the Lights._ **

“Sounds like a plan. Mind if I join him?”

**_You are not pretty enough._ **

“Oh, now you’re just being rude.”

**_Bjørn Thomassen will join the Lights. And you will die._ **

Mikkel glares his worst glare and raises his axe, holding it menacingly with both hands. “Allow me to disagree,” he growls.

A laugh in his head, so cold it sends a shiver down his spine.

**_You will not harm us with that._ **

“Is that a dare?”

**_Your weapon has never tasted blood, Mikkel Densen, and it never will._ **

“No, maybe you’re right.” Mikkel eyes his axe thoughtfully. “This war axe has never seen battle. But you know what?” His gaze moves back to the creature, and the glare in his eyes must be something else, because it flinches. “It is just perfect for chopping wood.”

He moves so fast he surprises even himself. The creature moves with ease out of the trajectory of the axe but, taken by surprise, fails to see Mikkel’s true objective.

A drum splinters under Mikkel’s axe. The music falters for a second, the creatures screech, and Bjørn stumbles. For a fraction of a second, he’s back to himself: his face contorts into a panicked expression, but he barely has time to call for Mikkel before the music resumes and the spell catches him again.

One drum down; six to go.

The second goes down quickly.

Before Mikkel can get to the third one, the creatures attack him.

One of them (probably the one he was talking to) jumps on his back, wrapping its arms around his neck and its legs around his torso. The other two grab his legs, trying to hold him in place.

Mikkel roars a wild battle scream and moves anyway, because he’s not made it this far to fail now.

Two more drums crumble under his axe.

Then the creature on his back sinks its teeth into his left shoulder.

Mikkel shrieks in pain when his flesh is torn by the sharp teeth. It’s like being stabbed with a hundred needles at the same time. There’s something warm dripping down his arm — blood, he realizes. He goes blind for a second.

On his left, Bjørn gasps his name.

All his senses come back to him at once, sharper than ever.

He’s not even sure how, but he manages to crush another drum. The creatures screech and double the strength of their hold on him. Mikkel’s instinctive response is tossing his axe towards one of the two remaining drums, somehow managing to hit it.

There’s barely any music now. Bjørn is still in the middle of the circle, swaying from one foot to another, his expression lost and confused.

 _We’re nearly there, Bjørn_ , Mikkel thinks, almost delirious. _Just one more drum. Just_ —

**_You have no weapon now._ **

The remark reverberates inside his head, an omen of what’s to come that barely warns him before the teeth sink deeper into his shoulder. Mikkel howls. There are bright spots in his vision that don’t seem to come from the Northern Lights. He’s certain that the creature has reached the bone.

“L-Let go,” he pants, practically at the limit of his strength. “ _Let go, you son of a bitch!_ ”

His right hand flies to his back and finds the thin membrane of a wing. He claws at it with rage and pulls, tearing it almost in half. The creature on his back releases his shoulder, screeching, and falls back into the snow. The other two follow it, hissing, and Mikkel takes his chance: with the last remnants of his strength, he grabs his axe, drags it across the snow to the last drum and, with a wild roar, slams it down on it.

All at once, the Northern Lights vanish, the creatures flee, and Bjørn collapses.

**_***_ **

_HE LÅ E LOI LA_

_Č_ _AJET DAN_ _Č_ _UOVGGA_

**_***_ **

Of all the bad experiences Bjørn has had throughout his life, being assaulted all at once by acute feelings of cold, hunger and exhaustion is by far the worst.

The music is gone, the faeries are gone, and he lays down in the snow, with no strength to even open his eyes, let alone move. He hears heavy footsteps, then feels a weight dropping next to him.

Mikkel’s soft, trembling caress to his cheek is like the first ray of sunshine after a long, dark night.

“Bjørn?” he asks in a shaky voice, and Bjørn has never been happier to hear his stupid, stupid lover. “Are you alright?”

“I’m alive,” Bjørn manages to whisper, and while it doesn’t really answer his question, he hears Mikkel sob in relief.

Before losing consciousness, he allows himself to believe that everything might turn out fine.

**_***_ **

_HE LÅ E LOI LA_

**_***_ **

When he wakes up again, it’s broad daylight. He takes in a deep breath — he’s alive, he’s not under a spell, he’s with Mikkel.

And he’s hungry.

“What’s for breakfast?” he asks. His voice comes out weak; his tongue feels heavy in his mouth.

Not even a second later, Mikkel is by his side. “You’re awake! I was so worried — you’ve been out for, like, a day and a half.”

Mikkel helps him move into a sitting position as he keeps blabbering, and Bjørn can’t help but smile. He wants to reply something clever; see Mikkel’s pout again and remember why he loves provoking it so much.

However, the moment he looks Mikkel in the face (he’s as unfairly handsome as ever), his lover falls quiet, an awestruck expression on his face.

“Mikkel?” Bjørn mumbles. “Everything alright?”

“Y-Yes, it’s just… Well, I mean… Your _eyes_.”

“What about my eyes?”

“Nothing. Only… They’re kinda purple.”

“Purple?”

“Yes. Oh, you should have seen your eyes when you were… you know. They kept changing, like the Lights. Maybe they were purple when I broke the spell,” he muses, his hand on Bjørn’s cheek and eyes fixed on his.

Bjørn fights back the childish need to ask what Mikkel thinks of the change —the loving expression on his face is answer enough — and instead looks questioningly at him and asks: “How did you break the spell?”

Mikkel tells him everything over breakfast. And everything really means _everything_ : starting from when he woke up the morning after Bjørn was taken, and ending with Bjørn’s own awakening minutes before.

Bjørn listens intently, amazed and touched by how far Mikkel will go for him. He worries about the suspicions this whole adventure may provoke back home. But, when he voices his concern to Mikkel, he smiles mysteriously.

“Ah, about that… Remember the man called Berwald I told you about?”

**_***_ **

_HE LÅ E LOI LA_

_Č_ _AJET DAN_ _Č_ _UOVGGA_

**_***_ **

It takes them nearly a week to reach the village. They need to stop often, because Bjørn is still recovering from the whole experience and Mikkel’s injured shoulder hurts like a bitch, in his own words.

Bjørn apologizes time and time again for slowing his pace, but Mikkel always assures him it’s no problem. He loves it when they stop for rest and he can look at his lover: look at him, make sure he’s there, take in the changes, possibly permanent, that the faery magic has left on him. He’s much fairer now, and the purple eyes give him a mystical air that Mikkel adores.

Best of all, the changes seem to be entirely physical. Underneath it, it’s still his Bjørn.

And nothing could make him happier.

**_***_ **

_HE LÅ E LOI LA_

**_***_ **

They’re about to reach the village when they meet a man on the path. He comes out of the forest carrying some firewood, which he drops the moment he spots them.

“Oh, Gods,” he gasps. “Are you Mikkel?”

“Yes?”

“Bjørn?”

Bjørn nods and the man squeals in delight. “You made it!” He rushes to them and shakes their hands effusively. “I’m Tino. Berwald is my husband. Oh, he’ll be so pleased to know you’ve arrived! He wouldn’t stop talking about you.”

 _Wouldn’t stop talking_. Mikkel smiles. _Yeah, sure_.

“I’d love to see him again,” he says instead.

“Definitely!” Tino chirps. He rushes to his fallen firewood and picks it up again. “He’s already arranged a small house be left empty for the two of you, in case you choose to stay. Ah, but he’ll give you the details. Come along!”

Mikkel starts to follow him, but Bjørn remains nailed to the spot, his gaze fixed on the village before them.

“Bjørn?” Mikkel asks tentatively. “Are you alright?”

Bjørn nods, but he’s biting his lip. He does that when he’s worried or uncertain. “You do realize,” he says, slowly, “that we may never go back home.”

Mikkel shrugs. “That place was only home because you were there. We can build a new home here, Bjørn, one where we can be who we are without fear. We won’t have to pretend.” He walks closer to him, until they’re standing chest to chest, and lets his fingertips trace Bjørn’s cheek. “I think it’s worth a shot,” he whispers.

Next thing he knows, Bjørn is kissing him. And it’s a kiss that carries the promise of a new future.

“Well, then,” Bjørn smiles when they part. “Shall we go?”

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> KEiiNO came to Madrid's Pride and I got to see them live. It was awesome! :D Keeping my fingers crossed to see them again at Eurovision soon n_n
> 
> Anyway, hope you liked this story! I powered through to finish it because tomorrow I'm leaving for summer camp. I finished writing this at 4:30 in the morning :) (If the ending feels a little rushed, yup, that's why.) I may not be able to reed them for a fortnight, but still, reviews will be most welcome! n_n


End file.
